As a simple sack, Ezra Pound, poet grandee in the turbulence, would carry on. His friends and doormats knew whereupon he stood. And he wasn’t always complete, wrong or otherwise. Some freshets smell like tuckered, specifically instruments with which tucks are made. The merest tuck, in the fabric, becomes a given. If taken, the cheerless will survive with logopoeia as operating system, glossary. flourish, sublime and gross nature. Pound heroically bound up and out, requiring adjustment and more reading, even some of the words. Words stayed crooked, fusty, bleary while also rated rational. No more maundering stars unless settled upon. This simple wanting sack in time for outermost scuttle but absolutely like pure. Personal oblivion counts for zero but zero itself scores as new excitement. So glad that words were there to be there, for the sack of everything held dear.
From the thing itself, beyond seasoned aptness. Life is like living but blurred by you were listening. Aspect ratio telemetry in myriad languages smooth as rocks approaches time to look. Words piece together things or things find words. Endlessness is a choice, written big in words as shiny as geese. Words simply take the time in radiation and radical point. Stein wrote the heft of nothing special, start there or whatever. You can slowly adjust the franchise, commodity's inner workings. Subglacial quips, subliminal washouts, frantic azure in the breeze of frosty Friday: these special sparking hallways slyly enjoin. Maybe you read too much into reading too much. Further on is where you’ll stay.
Comments